


To Experience You At All Times

by darling_toforeverandback



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: AU where melchior is not in the hayloft and unintentionally stops moritz from killing himself, Angst, Crossdressing Kink, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Mentions of Fanny Gabor - Freeform, Mentions of Wendla Bergmann, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, the smut chapters are marked with some version of "cursed" in the beginning notes, the underage tag is there because the lads are technically both underage, the working title for this was "cursed content"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-13 16:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_toforeverandback/pseuds/darling_toforeverandback
Summary: Moritz says the only thing he can, “You kissed me.” It only partly sounds like a question.“I kissed you,” is the only thing Melchior says in response. He looks to Moritz, waiting for him to make the next move. Waiting for him to say something else. Say anything at all.
Relationships: Melchior Gabor/Moritz Stiefel
Comments: 29
Kudos: 61





	1. sweet lips on my lips

**Author's Note:**

> so this was originally written as a word vomit in the notes app on my phone but then i polished her up and here she is
> 
> she is, in the words of my friends, cursed but pure
> 
> this is not only my first fic in the fandom but my first published fic - do with that what you will 
> 
> also: moritz is a very sad boy but it all works out in the end

Moritz is wandering. He feels so alone and it feels as though the world keeps going dark. He just keeps going through it but he doesn’t want to. It’s so dark and honestly, he just wants it all to stop.

Moritz is wandering when he finds it. That elusive spot - rumored to have only been found by Wendla Bergmann - is right in front of him. This, off the bank of the river, is Melchior’s tree. He knows this to be true because Melchior himself sits beneath the branches, scribbling furiously in his journal. Moritz can almost make out the mumbled words Melchior whispers aloud to himself as he writes.

Moritz feels the world fall out from beneath his feet. This is Melchior’s special place and he should not be here. Melchior may be fine with Wendla Bergmann noticing but surely he would not be alright with Moritz knowing too. He shouldn’t know where this tree is. He would be better off knowing nothing at all.

He turns to flee but he is far too clumsy and his foot falls heavily on a brittle twig. Moritz feels confident that Melchior heard the snap as the branch broke and he knows that this is it. His best friend is going to yell at him for intruding upon his time. Moritz deserves it but he’s not sure he’s strong enough to hear it.

_The pistol in his pocket tells him that he is definitely not strong enough._

Melchior, however, never ceases to amaze him. He calls out to Moritz. Calls him back. Moritz is shaking and so, so close to tears. He shuffles closer to where Melchior sits, expecting the other boy to change his mind and send him away. “Melchi,” his voice is shaky, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I can go.”

Melchior just reaches a hand up and grabs Moritz’s sleeve. “Stay,” he says, “Stay and sit. It’s quite alright that you’re here.”

Moritz allows himself to be tugged down and half-formed apologies fall from his lips. Melchior waves his apologies away. Moritz opens his mouth to apologize again but the words die on his tongue at the pointed look on Melchior’s face. He switches tactics, “Aren’t you supposed to be in church?”

His words are met with a chuckle, “Moritz, you know very well I’m an atheist. Though I could ask the same of you.” Seeing a strange look pass over Moritz’s face, Melchior answers honestly, “Wendla Bergmann was looking for me. I was in the hayloft earlier but she almost found me. I couldn’t - I can’t face her.” He trails off as he becomes aware of Moritz next to him. Moritz is shaking and his distress does not seem to have gone down in the time he has been with Melchior.

Melchior knows that Moritz can get wrapped up in his own head so he prompts him, “Tell me what troubles you, Mo.” He hopes the childhood nickname will ease the tension radiating off of Moritz.

Moritz swallows harshly and tells him what he had told his father that afternoon. “Melchi, I, I,” he stumbles over his words before exhaling abruptly. “I failed. I’m not moving to the next class. I told my father and he was right.”

Melchior is reeling but he bites out the question, “Right about what?”

“I’m a failure,” Moritz’s voice is flat and Melchior finds that he does not prefer it. “There is nothing but darkness for me now.” Melchior’s eyes follow Moritz’s hand as it twitches towards his pocket. There is an odd lump there that Melchior cannot identify.

Melchior takes a deep breath as if he was preparing for a tirade. Moritz braces himself; Melchior is so much smarter than he is. Why would he want a friend like Moritz?

_The pistol in his pocket tells him that Melchior would be better off without a deadweight like Moritz dragging him down._

“I don’t understand!” Melchior explodes, “You passed the middle terms and you were all set to pass the final!” Moritz just nods, waiting for the final blow. “You worked so I hard! I saw you! I was with you! It must have been that rotten woman, Fräulein Knuppeldick. She was the one that graded the finals and she’s never liked you.”

Moritz’s jaw drops. Then, they come. Moritz starts to sob and he cannot stop the tears. Melchior had managed to say just the right thing; it was different from what his father had said to him and it was what he needed to hear. Melchior always seemed to know just what to say to him to make him feel whole. Except now, Moritz is aware of how loud his sobs are and he is just sitting in front of Melchior crying. He starts apologizing again even though Melchior probably can’t understand him through all of the tears and snot and hiccuping. He starts to get up because he’s already ruined this place by being here, he can’t further taint Melchior’s associations here.

Melchior’s hand shoots up to grab Moritz’s wrist. He had been stunned into silence at Moritz’s outburst and his hand moved almost without his knowledge. Melchior drew in a shaking breath and tugged. He pulls Moritz down and he stumbles into Melchior’s lap.

Moritz feels something fall out of his pocket but that doesn’t matter because he also feels Melchior’s arms circle around him. He cannot recall the last time he felt this safe. Moritz, quite suddenly, does become aware of what had fallen out of his pocket.

_The pistol on the ground tells him that he should not be thinking about Melchior’s arms. The pistol on the ground tells him that he should not be thinking about how well Melchior’s arms hold him. The pistol on the ground._

Moritz jerks out of Melchior’s lap and starts apologizing again. As the words tumble from his lips, he dropped to his knees and reaches for the gun. He cannot look Melchior in the face. His hand grasps the barrel of the pistol and he fumbles to get a better grip. He is vaguely aware of Melchior talking to him but he can’t hear it.

Melchior has a lump in his throat when he sees what Moritz is looking for, “Moritz, what is that? Why do you have that? Moritz, no, no. Moritz, you can’t.” He’s babbling. He never babbles but Moritz has a gun and Moritz is crying and he cannot lose Moritz. He thought he was sure of his stance on God but in this moment, he knows this with bone-deep certainty: please, God, he cannot lose Moritz.

Melchior’s hand had moved of his own accord before but now it was with utmost deliberation that he placed his hand on top of the one Moritz had clutched around the gun. He, slowly, still so deliberately, slides the pistol out of Moritz’s hand. Once he has it in his hand, he flings it behind him. He wants it as far from Moritz as he can get it.

Moritz’s hand is opening and closing around the empty space and his body is heaving with dry sobs. He has no more tears left. Melchior once more reaches for Moritz and this time, he skips his wrist and instead, interlocks their fingers.

Moritz’s breaths are shaky and uneven. He becomes more aware as the tracks dry on his face that Melchior is holding his hand. Melchior is saying something. He can’t focus but he does, surprisingly, hear the much softer, “Don’t hate me.” He does focus on Melchior’s lips. He focuses on them because they are on his own. Melchior is...kissing him.

Moritz’s mind and breathing come to a crashing halt. He sucks in a deep breath and tries to meet Melchior’s gaze. He can see the flush crawling up the other boy’s neck and cheeks and Melchior, once more, starts to babble. “I’m sorry, Moritz. I shouldn’t have… You were just still so worked up and I couldn’t slow you down. You couldn’t hear me. Moritz, I…” the words trail off.

Moritz says the only thing he can, “You kissed me.” It only partly sounds like a question.

“I kissed you,” is the only thing Melchior says in response. He looks to Moritz, waiting for him to make the next move. Waiting for him to say something else. Say anything at all.

Moritz does not say anything else and that is almost it.

Except even after they separate and their hands are no longer ensconced together, Melchior still feels Moritz’s lips. Except even after Melchior silently steers Moritz in the direction of the Gabor home instead of the Stiefel household, he still feels how soft Moritz’s lips were beneath his. Except even after Melchior ushers Moritz up to his bedroom, Melchior still aches to know what is happening inside Moritz’s head.

Melchior cannot help but think about Wendla Bergmann and how whatever he felt towards her was just lust. It was nothing more than his teenage mind and body wanting touch. This, however, is something else. It is as if Melchior contemplating losing Moritz has made him so much more aware of his own thoughts and feelings. There is something that blooms in his chest when he sees Moritz or hears his voice. There is something that blooms in his chest when he simply thinks of Moritz and perhaps, this. This is what they mean by love.

Melchior mutely offers Moritz pajamas. They change with their backs to each other and red cheeks. Melchior’s bed is far too small for two boys of their size but there is a shared want to be close. They are curled up on Melchior’s mattress, sharing breaths. Moritz finally, finally breaks the silence, “Melchior, why did you kiss me?”

Melchior closes his eyes and simply feels Moritz’s breath. He cannot bear to see Moritz grow disgusted with him. Moritz, however, deserves his honesty, “I kissed you because you had a gun and all I could see was you lying on the ground. All I could see was my life without you and I don’t want that. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you. So, I kissed you.”

“Melchi,” Moritz whispers, “Open your eyes.” Melchior gives a small shake of his head. “Melchi, please.” Melchior is learning many things about himself tonight and among them is that he would do anything for Moritz if he asked in that soft voice. He opens his eyes.

Moritz’s voice gains volume as Melchior’s eyes meet his, “I’m sorry to have worried you. I, I don’t want to be lost from you either.”

Melchior is who he is and he cannot stop the drawling, “Yeah?” that escapes him. Moritz does not mind the cocksure tone because the word is accompanied by another blush high on Melchior’s cheeks. Moritz cannot control his hand as it comes up and he cannot stop his fingers from tracing the flush across his face.

“Melchi,” Moritz’s hand stills. “Melchi, you could do it again.”

“Do?” Melchior smirked. “Do what again? You’ll have to be more specific, Mo.”

Moritz blushes and squeezes his eyes shut. He might actually die if Melchior makes him say it out loud. “Melchi,” he whines, “Melchi, please.” Moritz’s eyes open and flick from Melchior’s eyes down to his lips. “If you...if you want to.”

“Mo, of course I want to,” Melchior breathes out. He shuffles forward, closing what little distance that remains between them. His eyes slip shut and he once more touches his lips to Moritz’s. There are no tears this time, only the parting of Moritz’s lips in a gentle gasp. There is no sense of fear, only Melchior’s tongue touching Moritz’s lip. There is no urgency here, only Melchior tasting Moritz from the inside out. He is sweeter than anything Melchior had ever tasted before.

Surely, Melchior thinks, this is far better than whatever reconciliation Wendla had in mind when she came looking for him. Surely, this is better than anything he could share with Wendla Bergmann because Moritz is so beautiful like this. Melchior doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know that. He knows, with the same bone-deep certainty of before, that he loves Moritz.

Moritz lets Melchior kiss him and he lets the rest of the day slip away. He lets the rest of his life fade into the background. No matter what had happened with his parents or at school or in the dark moments before he found Melchior, surely this is all that matters. In this moment, there is only the feeling of Melchior’s slightly too full bottom lip and there is only shared breath between them. In this moment, they are the only two people in the universe.

Moritz thinks, in passing, this is what love must be like.


	2. soothe me gently

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she's very short but she's the purest thing that will ever grace this cursed content

Melchior used to leave his journal at home. He would take it with him to the oak tree but other than that, it would remain safely in his room with all the journals he had previously filled. Now, though, now he takes it with him everywhere. Everyone must think him mad for how often he brings it out to scribble something new. He cannot help it. Every time he thinks of a new reason that he loves Moritz, his heart beats uncontrollably until he wrote it down. It was a matter of personal health; at least, that’s what he told Moritz.

Just in the last week, he had written about Moritz’s love of the rain.

His mother, upon hearing of Moritz’s father’s reaction, had insisted Moritz stay in the Gabor household. She felt it was the least she could do for not telling Melchior about Moritz’s letter. It didn’t matter to her that Melchior had assured her that things had worked out; details, of course, being overwhelmingly excluded. Regardless of the reason, Moritz had experienced the last several rainstorms from the windowsill in Melchior’s bedroom.

He liked to sit with the sash open and his bare legs dangling down. Moritz said he enjoyed the cool breeze and how clean it smelled. Melchior enjoyed the way that cool breeze deepened Moritz’s breaths and soothed the stress on his brow.

Melchior had been previously indifferent to rain. It was simply water that fell from the sky; it happened, nothing more. Now, he has a favorite repercussion of the whole ordeal. His favorite part about when it rains is that his window is too small for the two of them to sit next to each other. While normally, he wants to be as close to Moritz as possible, he likes the feel of Moritz’s hand in his hair.

Melchior likes to sit with his back to the wall and lay his head against Moritz’s hip. Moritz always starts with his hands in his lap but as the rain falls, one hand slowly moves to bury itself in the soft curls next to him. Moritz will run his fingers through Melchior’s hair and it quiets his mind in ways previously unexperienced.

Moritz finds comfort in the rain but Melchior finds his comfort in Moritz.

Every time he thinks of it, he writes it down. There must be whole pages about how he loves Moritz’s love of rain. Melchior supposes that he can no longer claim indifference. They both like it when it rains.


	3. those hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cursed, that's it.

Moritz is going through his things. He and Melchior had snuck into the Steifel house and packed up all of Moritz’s worldly possessions. It hadn’t taken long; Moritz doesn’t have much. 

He sifts through his clothes, separating out things that he has outgrown. His fingers brush what feels like paper as he moves an old school blazer out of the way. He shakes out the jacket and a wad of paper falls to the ground. He wonders how any of his school work could have made it into his closet.  Moritz takes the papers over to Melchior’s desk and smooths them out. 

Boldly, across the top: The Art of Sleeping With. 

Even now, Moritz cannot help but flush as he reads the title. He flips through the essay Melchior had written for him so long ago. How strange to think of a time when his own body was as foreign to him as someone else’s. As Melchior’s. He focuses on the passage he has landed on. On the page, Melchior describes how a woman feels during coupling. 

The words force another memory to the surface of Moritz’s thoughts: him, asking Melchior how he knew what a woman felt. He had been terrified of what Melchior would say. Terrified that Melchior would not only know the logistics but have had practical experience. One more reason for Melchior to leave him behind. 

Moritz says a quick thank you to whatever entity that is listening that Melchior did not leave him behind. The memory does not end there, however, but continues into Melchior’s actual answer. All Moritz can hear is Melchior saying that he imagines what she feels. That he puts himself in the woman’s place. 

It is all Moritz can hear as he stuffs the papers into one of Melchior’s desk drawers and all he hears as he finishes sorting his clothes. It is all he can hear when Melchior arrives and still the only sound in his ears when Melchior gives him a soft, quick kiss hello. He registers Melchior saying his parents will be leaving early in the morning and will be gone all day. He isn’t sure how because Melchior’s words from months ago are still all he can hear. 

They move through the evening and Moritz’s mind will not quiet, even as he lays against Melchior’s chest. The other boy’s heartbeat not enough to drown out the words in his head. He hears them as he falls asleep. 

In the morning, he wakes and in the soft, sleepwarm space between them, Moritz blurts out the words. “Melchi, do you want to actually know what the woman feels like?”

Melchior is still half asleep but makes a valiant effort to blink himself farther into wakefulness at Moritz’s question. His voice is scratchy with sleep, “Mo...Mo, what are you talking about?”

“In the essay you gave me. You describe how the woman feels during… during sex,” he stumbles over the words. “I asked you how you knew and you said you imagined it.”

Melchior blushes a bright crimson to match the color of Moritz’s own cheeks. “Moritz. Are you asking if I want,” he takes a deep breath, “If I want you to be inside me?”

Moritz nods. He bites his lip, starting to doubt himself. “Not that I don’t lo.. Really like what we do and we can keep doing that. I just though - “ He is cut off by Melchior crushing his lips against Moritz’s. 

“Yes,” Melchior says as pulls away, “But only if I can still be on top of you.” 

Moritz nods furiously, “Okay. Okay.” He leans in to kiss Melchior again, “Wait, are your parents gone yet?”

Melchior smirks, “You want to do it now? In the cold light of day? My, my, Moritz Stiefel.” Moritz’s face crumples and he starts to think he’s messed up. He shouldn’t have asked Melchior this morning. He should have tried harder to keep it in.

Melchior notices the look on his boy’s face and regrets his words, Moritz still isn’t quite ready to share in teasing about the two of them. Melchior gets a little lost in thoughts of a future where Moritz is comfortable with who they are together. He is brought back to the present by a sharp inhale he recognizes as Moritz about to start apologizing. He kisses Moritz once again. “Mo, I want it, too. Now. I want it now, too.”

Moritz smiles at Melchior’s words then kisses Melchior. They sink into the kiss, hungry. They part, both gasping for breath. Melchior pushes off the bed, “Get your shirt off, Mo.” He feels for the box under his bed and retrieves the oil. He tosses the jar onto the bed, where it lands next to Moritz’s now bare hip. Moritz scrunches his nose at the contact between the cold glass and his skin.

“I still can’t believe your mother hasn’t noticed the olive oil is missing,” Moritz moves the jar to the bedside table.  
Melchior pushes Moritz onto his back and straddles his hips, “Moritz, please, I am begging you.” He leans down and presses a quick kiss to Moritz’s mouth, “Please do not talk about my mother when you’re about to fuck me.”

Moritz laughs and slides his hands up Melchior’s thighs, rucking up his nightshirt. “Alright, alright. I promise the only Gabor I’ll talk about is you.” His hands settle on Melchior’s hips. “Do you want me to,” his eyes flit over to the jar on the nightstand. He trails off, biting his lip.

Melchior leans over to grab the jar and Moritz lets out a long groan as Melchior’s hips shift against him. If he hadn’t been completely hard, he certainly was after that. Melchior smirks down at Moritz, “No, no, I’ve got it.” Melchior tosses the lid of the jar aside; neither of them register the clatter of the lid on the ground. “Don’t shake this off,” he balances the jar on Moritz’s chest. He clucks his tongue at Moritz’s immediate shiver, “Still, Mo.”

Moritz flexes his fingers against Melchior’s hips. “Maybe I would be better at staying still if I wasn’t the only one without a shirt on.” Melchior rolls his eyes and quickly shucks his nightshirt. He shivers as the cold air hits him but a warmth stirs in the pit of his stomach as he makes eye contact with Moritz. As he notices the heat in Moritz’s eyes. 

He dips his first two fingers into the jar balanced on Moritz’s chest and reaches around. He slips his index finger in, wincing at the feeling. He lets out a long breath at Moritz’s words, “Melchi, baby, just relax.” He gently rocks back onto his finger, moaning at the feeling of his cock brushing Moritz’s as he shifts. He adds his second finger. He tries to emulate what he normally does on Moritz but it’s not quite right, “Mo, I… I can’t get the angle right.” His voice wavers, “Mo, I want it but I can’t…”

Moritz hushes him, “Melchi, Melchi, it’s alright. Let me help you.” Moritz squeezes Melchior’s hip reassuringly and then reaches into the jar on his chest and coats his first three fingers. With his other hand he moves the jar back onto the nightstand, “Melchi, move your hand.” At Melchiors headshake, Moritz tries again, “Melchi, please.” Melchior was aware of his character flaws and he knew one of them was that he was absolutely weak for Moritz Stiefel. He moves his hand. 

Moritz shifts them to get a better angle. His slick fingers find their way to where Melchior’s fingers had just been. He slips two fingers in and this, this is what Melchior had been missing. He’d gone half-soft at his own ministrations but Moritz’s fingers were divine. His cock rose back to full stiffness as Moritz added his third finger. 

Moritz works his fingers in and out and Melchior shifts his hips to meet him. “Mo,” Melchior’s hands spasm on Moritz’s chest, “Mo, how did you get so good at this?”

Moritz leans up to kiss the underside of Melchior’s jaw. “Well, I do get awfully bored when you’re at school. I need to find some way to fill my time.”

Melchior moans loudly at the way their bodies moved together combined with the image of Moritz in his bed, his own fingers buried within himself. “You said,” he gasps, “You said you were reading.”

Moritz presses another kiss to Moritz’s throat, “You’re gone for a very long time. I have time for both.”

Melchior reaches his breaking point and shoves Moritz back onto the bed, groaning as Moritz’s fingers leave him. Moritz looks up in alarm at Melchior; Melchior’s name dies on his lips as the boy in question takes hold of Moritz’s cock. He fists the remainder of the olive oil on his hands with Moritz’s precum up and down. With one hand on Moritz’s chest and the other on his cock, Melchior lifts himself up. Moritz’s hands find their way back to Melchior’s hips. 

Melchior looks down at Moritz and loses his breath. Moritz is looking at him in a way that is making him question his stance on the church. Moritz is looking at him as if he were something divine. Melchior sinks down on Moritz’s cock. Slow and so, so good. Melchior sees Moritz’s eyes flutter shut and feels the air leave his lungs as Melchior takes Moritz in completely. 

“Melchi,” Moritz’s voice is strained, “I don’t know if I can...I’m not going to last.” It feels as though his brain has been replaced by liquid; this is even better than having his fingers inside of Melchior. 

Melchior leans down to kiss him and they both groan at the change in angle. Melchior breathes into Moritz’s mouth, “Just let me take care of you. You did such a good job now let me take care of you. Just like I always do.” Melchior feels rather than hears the “Okay” on Moritz’s lips. Melchior sits back up and starts to slowly roll his hips. He braces himself on Moritz’s chest and lifts himself ever so slightly off Moritz’s cock and still slowly, drops back down. 

Every slow rise and fall Melchior makes confirms a belief in Heaven that Moritz wasn’t even sure he had until now. He clutches at Melchior’s hips and slides his hands up and down Melchior’s thighs. “Melchi, you’re so good...Don’t know what I’d do without you.” The words are not enough to convey how Moritz feels about the boy above him but they are the only words he has.

Melchior strokes Moritz’s chest and face; he cannot get enough of the boy below him. “Mo, angel,” his voice is almost broken with pleasure, “You feel so good. Need...I need…” His words are stilted and stuck somewhere behind the sheer amount of want that fills him. Melchior is definitely going to have to revisit his notion of God because surely Heaven is what happens when Moritz’s cock hits just the right spot inside of him. Surely, Heaven is what happens when Moritz’s eyes are almost completely black with want. Surely, Heaven is what happens when Moritz’s perfect hand curls around Melchior’s cock and starts tugging in time with Melchior’s slow movements up and down. Surely, Melchior thinks, this is what people mean when they speak of the divine. 

Melchior cannot take it for much longer. Moritz’s cock is perfect. Moritz is perfect. His hand speeds up on Melchior’s cock and Melchior is trapped between his hand and the words falling from Moritz’s lips. “Melchi, God, you’re taking such good care of me. You’re so good to me. So good.” Melchior has received his fair share of praise throughout the years but none of it has ever meant so much. 

If this, Melchior thinks, if this is what it actually feels like to be the woman then his only choice is to damn God; damn God for making him a man because this is perfect. This - Moritz inside of him - is right. 

Moritz knows that Melchior has been taking care of him for awhile but this is the best way he has ever done so. Moritz’s hand spasms on Melchior’s cock, “Melchi, Melchi, I’m...I'm gonna…” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, lost in pleasure as soon as he hears Melchior’s whispered, “Please.” He fills Melchior in the most incredible way possible; Melchior may be damning God for making a mistake with his anatomy but there was no mistake in leading him to Moritz. Moritz opens his eyes and Melchior swears he sees love amidst the blissed expression on his face. No, there was no mistake in leading him to this moment with Moritz. Melchior follows, spurting across Moritz’s chest. 

He collapses onto Moritz’s chest, smearing his release between them. Neither of them mind the mess. He can feel Moritz’s hands, stroking up and down his back. He can feel Moritz’s softening cock in his ass. He can feel Moritz’s breath on the top of his head. He can feel the rise and fall of Moritz’s chest. He feels his heartbeat synchronize with Moritz’s. He feels his eyelids press shut as their hearts beat in time.

Moritz kisses the top of Melchior’s head and then slowly rolls them over until Melchior is on his back. He slips out of the other boy and Melchior whines at the feeling. Mortiz’s cock belongs in him, “Why are you moving?” Moritz huffs a laugh and presses a kiss to the tip of Moritz’s nose. Melchior feels blindly for Moritz after he moves away. 

“Mo -” his drawn out call of the other boy’s name is abruptly cut off by the feeling of a wet cloth on his stomach. His eyes snap open. Moritz has wiped the mess off his own chest. Melchior pushes himself onto his elbows and pouts, “Mo, I always do that. I take care of you.”

Moritz smirks, “I wouldn’t have fucked you if I knew you’d be so demanding afterwards.” He softens, “Melchi, you have taken care of me.” He takes the cloth in hand and swipes across Melchior’s chest. He leans down to clean the mess between Melchior’s legs. Melchior’s legs fall open to accommodate him. Moritz is looking at him far too softly for where he is located. Moritz presses a kiss to Melchior’s hipbone, “Let me take care of you.”

Melchior collapses back onto the bed, “Alright, alright. But hurry up and come up here.” His grabbing hands catch in Moritz’s hair, “I want to kiss you.”

Moritz tosses the dirtied cloth aside, “Give me a second.” Melchior’s confusion clears at the second press of Moritz’s lips to his side and at the press of his lips to Melchior’s abdominals. The press of his lips to Melchior’s chest and the press of his lips to Melchior’s throat. The press of his lips to Melchior’s jaw and cheek and nose and forehead.

Moritz cuts off the beginning of Melchior’s protest with the press of his lips to Melchior’s own. The kiss feels as though it lasts forever. The good kind of forever found only in the moments shared between them. 


	4. when my love reaches to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short one but who doesn't love that soft forearm content?

Melchior had said he needed to get his homework done. He had said, “Not now, Moritz.” Moritz was doing his best to listen to him. He really was but he had convinced Melchior to sit next to him and he was getting distracted from the book he had in his own lap. The words on the page are not nearly as interesting as the veins running along the back of Melchior’s hands and up his arms. It was not Moritz’s fault - if Melchior had not wanted him to look he should not have taken off his school blazer. He most definitely should not have rolled up his shirtsleeves. 

Moritz snaps the book shut hoping the sound will gain Melchior’s attention. Melchior is, however, perhaps the most stubborn man to walk the earth and resolutely focuses on the textbook in front of him. Moritz is not quite sure what Melchior is working on. He knows Melchior had told him but he had been far too focused on the other boy’s Cupid’s bow to pay much attention to it. 

Moritz reaches over and pulls Melchior’s left hand into his lap. His fingertips trace lightly over the backs of Melchior’s fingers, across the raised veins, trailing down to his wrist before beginning their path once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Melchior’s right hand stutter. Moritz is enjoying the soft feeling of Melchior’s skin far too much to let that stop him. His path lengthens and he follows the blood vessels from wrist to elbow. Moritz feels no shame at how he is effectively, just stroking Melchior's forearm now. 

Melchior inhales sharply, “Moritz, I’m trying to work. What are you doing?”

Moritz does not pause in his ministrations. “What does it matter what I’m doing? You’re right handed.” He smirks, “That hand is still free. I’m not stopping you from doing your work.”

Melchior huffs and tries to refocus. He does his best. He really does but Moritz has interlaced his left hand with Melchior’s and his right hand just keeps moving. He makes a dedicated effort to bring the words on the page in front of him back into clarity but it is utterly futile. How can he focus on a textbook when Moritz is touching him with the kind of single-minded focus that Melchior has never seen him possess outside of their shared bed? 

Melchior does not understand his own mind sometimes. He has been capable of his own single-minded focus in much more intense situations where Moritz’s hands had been touching him in places far more sensitive than his forearm. Why is it that Moritz running his fingers over the back of Melchior’s hand has absolutely destroyed his concentration? 

Melchior’s eyes track the movement of Moritz’s hands. Perhaps, it is the visual contrast between their hands? The veins in his own compared to the light freckles on Moritz’s. Perhaps, it is because even in his most vulnerable moments, Melchior had never imagined someone would want to touch him like this. 

He glances up to Moritz’s face and the soft smile there answers all of his questions. It’s Moritz. Melchior loves him. That’s enough. 

Melchior swallows the words as they try to push their way past his lips. Not yet.


	5. a prayer in perfect piety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ultra cursed: featuring blue stockings

They are sitting in a pile of things outside the church, waiting to be donated. They are in good condition - at least as far as Melchior can tell. He looks around surreptitiously and finds that he is completely alone. He picks them up and shoves them into his pocket and walks quickly away from the building. He doesn’t think anyone saw him but he does not want to linger and discover he is wrong. 

Once he gets home, he heads straight upstairs, calling a breezy hello to his mother. He doesn’t stop to talk; he cannot take the risk she will ask what the bulk in his jacket pocket is. He slows to a halt outside his bedroom door. It is the first time since Moritz had left his own home that Melchior hopes Moritz is not waiting for him on the other side. He pushes his door open, slowly, and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds it empty. 

He empties his pocket into the bottom drawer of his desk. Shoving them under a pile of old school work that he knows Moritz won’t touch. Melchior shrugs off his school jacket and heads back downstairs. His mother calls to him and he joins her in the kitchen. She turns her cheek to him and he gives it a quick peck, feeling he is far too old for such things. 

“Moritz told me he was going to read by the river.” On second thought, perhaps it was quite alright to indulge his mother. He gave her a second kiss on the cheek in thanks. 

“I’ll go and fetch him then,” Melchior says as he makes his way back out the door. “We’ll be home in time for supper.” He does not hear his mother’s words of disbelief, already picking up speed. Eager to see Moritz. 

Eager to tell him about what he had found. He wants to see Moritz’s face as the image solidifies in his mind. He wants to see Moritz’s face when he realizes he is going to have everything he wants. Melchior cannot help the flash of jealousy he feels as he thinks about the context of everything Moritz wants. 

Melchior starts to doubt. Perhaps, the things that Moritz wanted were not things he wanted Melchior to give him. Perhaps, he shouldn’t tell Moritz about what was now hiding in their bedroom. 

That is a thought that makes him smile. Their bedroom. His smile only grows wider as the river comes into view. The river. And Moritz. 

Moritz lays on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. He’d taken his shoes off when he’d reached the riverbank and now his bare feet move in slow motions through the air. Melchior thought he looked almost childlike in his enjoyment of the book in his hands. Then Moritz changes positions, sitting up. All thoughts of innocence left Melchior’s mind and the reminder that Moritz was quite grown up - that they both were - slams into him at the sight of Moritz’s stomach, revealed in the boy’s shifting. 

Upon seeing him, Melchior had planned to just quietly join him. He hadn’t wanted to disturb Moritz’s reading. His plan fails utterly, “Mo!” 

Moritz’s head shoots up and smiling, he calls back, “Melchi!” He closes the book, keeping his place with one index finger. He reaches his other hand out to Melchior. 

Melchior’s own arm lifts as if to grab Moritz’s hand, even though he is still too far away. He rectifies that, moving forward until their hands finally meet. Moritz tugs Melchior down to sit beside him. “How was your day? Learn anything? Did Herr Sonnenstich break another switch over your chest?”

Melchior laughs, “Why would he? You’re not there for me to take a beating for.”

Moritz rubs Melchior’s knuckles, “You know I’m sorry about that right? About all of it?”

Melchior leans in and kisses the side of Moritz’s jaw. The words are pressed into the skin there, between kisses, “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t deserve it and I’d do it again.” 

Moritz tilts his head to give Melchior more room and swallows the words that rise in his throat. He doesn’t want to spoil the day with words Melchior may not want to hear. 

The sun sinks as Moritz and Melchior talk. About Melchior’s school day and the book Moritz was reading. About the shapes of the clouds above and their passing thoughts. They talk and it is only after their shadows are long in the light of the setting summer sun that Melchior realizes how late it has gotten. He lets out a soft curse. Moritz raises an eyebrow at him. “I told my mother we’d be home in time for supper,” Melchior says in explanation. 

“Don’t worry,” Moritz laughs, “I’m sure she expected us to be late. We always are.” 

They make their way home. It is dark enough now that they can keep their fingers intertwined as they walk. When they reach the house, they find a cold supper waiting for them. Melchior picks up the note that his mother left for them and reads aloud, “The food should still be good cold - make sure Moritz eats all of his. He’s still far too skinny. It’s been a long day so your father and I have gone to bed. I’m hosting the ladies from the church to-morrow so you two should make yourselves scarce.” 

Moritz is already making headway on his plate by the time Melchior finishes reading. He tries to talk around a mouthful of food, “Oh no. Whatever shall we do? Kicked out of the house!”

Melchior holds his hand up in front of Moritz’s mouth. “Gross.” He ignores Moritz’s eye roll and continues, “I’m not entirely sure what that garbled mess was but I’m presuming it was something about our activities tomorrow. River or hayloft?” 

“Hayloft,” Moritz winks. He ignores the widening of Melchior’s eyes and pushes his plate toward him. “Hush and eat your food.” Melchior narrows his eyes and opens his mouth. Moritz takes the opportunity to shove the bread from Melchior’s plate into his mouth. “I know I just sounded like your mother but you’re just going to eat the bread and we’re going to forget about it.” 

Melchior nods and looks down at his plate. His head shoots up when he remembers Moritz’s wink. “Hayloft?” He hopes Moritz doesn’t notice how his voice shakes. He never did tell Moritz what he’d found. Maybe he should just. Show him. 

Moritz, if he noticed, doesn’t say anything about it, just gives a simple confirmation. They finish dinner in relative silence. Melchior knows he talks too much and he’s afraid that if he tries to talk now, now with the hayloft in the forefront of his mind, he will say it. 

He’s afraid of what Moritz will think. They go to bed. 

Melchior wakes before Moritz. The usual. What is not usual is Melchior hurriedly pulling clothes on. What is not usual is Melchior grabbing the jar of olive oil and the things in his desk drawer. What is not usual is Melchior sneaking out to the hayloft and depositing the items there. What is not usual is Melchior sneaking back into his house. Into his bed. 

What is not usual is lying to Moritz when he asks if he’s just been laying there watching Moritz sleep. He says yes and thinks this is a forgivable lie. 

Melchior redresses. It takes him longer than it should - this being his second time doing it today - because he gets distracted by the birthmark on Moritz’s back. Moritz shrugs his shirt on and turns to face Melchior. He smiles softly and asks even softer, “Melchi? Are you alright?”

Melchior nods, smiling in return. Melchior nods once more, firmer. This time, for himself. He loves Moritz. It’s worth any potential embarrassment on his part to attempt to give Moritz what he wants. 

Their breakfast is quick as Fanny nearly pushes them out of the door. “Don’t come back until late! For lunch!” The words are accompanied by a bag of food being shoved into Melchior’s hands and a shooing motion. 

Melchior must confess. He does not know if Moritz spoke to him as they walked to the barn. He does not know how they climbed up to the hayloft. He feels as though they simply appeared there. It is the worry in Moritz’s voice that brings him back to the present, “Melchi. Melchior! What’s wrong?”

Melchior drops the bag of food the floor, probably bruising the apples in the bag. He doesn’t care as he steps forward and kisses Moritz. “Nothing,” he says as he pulls back. He covers a haybale with a blanket they keep up here for less than saintly purposes. “Nothing, just. Just sit right here and give me a second. Don’t turn around.” 

Moritz looks at him worriedly. “Melchi, what?” 

“Mo, do you trust me?” Melchior doesn’t answer his question. 

Moritz nods his affirmative and sits on the haybale where Melchior told him to. He hears the now very distinct sound of Melchior’s clothes coming off. It takes everything in him to turn around when he hears the familiar clatter of the lid to the olive oil jar. “Melchi, why can’t I watch you? You’ve never been self-conscious before.”

The breathiness of Melchior’s reply stiffens Moritz’s cock in his trousers. “I’m trying something. You’ll like it.”

“Promise?” Moritz’s tease is met with silence.

Melchior’s voice is unsure when he says, “Yes.”

Melchior, his Melchior, is never so unsure. That tone of voice is enough to make Moritz start to turn around. “Mo, wait.” Moritz freezes. “Can you... can you take your clothes off? I promise you’ll be able to turn around soon.” 

Moritz wrinkles his brow but does as he’s told. He asks again, for what feels like the thousandth time, “Melchi, what?”

He hears Melchior take a deep breath. His voice doesn’t shake. “You can turn around. Just close your eyes.” Moritz turns around. “I know this isn’t the pulpit but I’m not really one for church anymore.”

Moritz does not care that Melchior hasn’t said he can look. He opens his eyes. Moritz’s heart stutters in his chest. He collapses back onto the blanket-covered bale.

Melchior, his Melchior, is standing before him. Standing before him wearing nothing but a pair of blue stockings. A pair of blue stockings that make his legs look absolutely divine. 

Moritz only barely remembers the faceless woman of his long-ago dreams. Whatever she looked like pales in comparison to the Melchior in front of him. 

Melchior’s name is the only word he knows. He reaches for Melchior as a drowning man reaching for a raft. 

Melchior walks toward him until Moritz’s outstretched fingers make contact with his thighs. Moritz attempts to pull him closer with just his fingertips. Melchior reaches out a hand and gently fists Moritz’s hair, lifting his gaze from his legs to face, “Good?”

Moritz keeps eye contact with Melchior as he leans forward, getting a better grip on Melchior’s legs. He hooks his hands behind Melchior’s knees and pulls him closer. Melchior stumbles closer to him and Moritz is finally able to run his hands up and down the length of Melchior’s legs. Melchior’s cock is about level with Moritz’s face and he breaks eye contact to lick a long stripe up his dick. After reaching the tip, his eyes flick back up to Melchior’s face, “Good? Melchi, you’re so good.” 

Melchior smirks and moves his hand from Moritz’s hair to his shoulder. His left hand mirrors his right and he uses his new leverage to straddle Moritz. Moritz thinks he’s going to pass out. He’s definitely going to pass out when Melchior leans in to breathe hotly into his ear, “This isn’t all. I got myself all wet for you.” 

Forget passing out. Moritz is going to die as Melchior sinks down on his cock. He doesn’t die but it is all he can do not to come immediately. He swears loudly, “Melchi!”

Melchior rides him, hard and fast. Nothing like the slow and wonderfully tortuous pace Melchior normally sets. Melchior is also normally very - not that he’d ever admit it - sappy in bed. He whispers sweet things so unlike the filth currently falling from his lips.

“I saw these and I thought of you. Thought of all those dreams you used to be so ashamed of.” Melchior kisses Moritz messily. “And you know what? I got jealous. I got jealous of you thinking about someone else. So I grabbed them. I want you to think of me and only me.” He kisses Moritz again. “Is that alright? The next time you have a sticky dream about someone in blue stockings, I want someone to be me.” 

Moritz nods frantically, “Yes. Yes. Only you. Just you.” Mortiz captures Melchior’s lips with his own. He has no trouble saying yes. He has no trouble meaning it. How could he ever imagine blue stockings that do not encase Melchior’s legs? How could he ever erase this from his mind long enough to imagine someone else? Melchior is the only thing he can think of. The only thing on his mind. 

Moritz wraps a hand around Melchior’s cock. Neither of them last much longer after that. They come within seconds of each other, Moritz spilling inside of Melchior and Melchior spilling between their chests. Melchior collapses against Moritz’s chest, breathing heavily into his shoulder. Moritz drops his head down and places gentle kisses on Melchior’s shoulder.

Moritz draws his hands up and down Melchior’s back, whispering, “So good, Melchi. So good to me. So good for me.”

Melchior catches his breath and then comes to the realization that blue stockings on sweaty legs are just itchy. He stands up on shaky legs, Moritz’s hands immediately coming up to steady him. As Melchior strips off the stockings, Moritz leans back and snags his undershirt. Melchior raises an eyebrow. “Well, we didn’t bring any rags. And this is just about that so...”

Melchior laughs, “It’ll give us an excuse to buy you more new clothes.” Moritz smiles and wipes the mess off them. They both pull on their underwear and Moritz moves the blanket to cover their usual pile of hay. He lays down and gently pulls Melchior down to meet him. Melchior lays down and puts his head on Moritz’s chest. 

The only noise in the hayloft is the sound of the wind and Moritz’s heartbeat beneath his ear. The only noise until Moritz says softly, “Why did you do this, Melchi? You know I only think of you now. You didn’t have to do this.”

Melchior bites his lip, “I’m a jealous person. I wanted you to know who you belonged to.”

Moritz reaches up slightly and tangles his fingers with Melchior’s. “I know you, Melchi. I know you better than that.” He rubs Melchior’s knuckles, “You never would have worn those just because you were jealous. You talk about me being yours often enough, anyway. That’s not the reason.”

Melchior lets out a long shuddering breath, “Fine. You got me. I just wanted you to have what you want. Everything you want.”

Moritz makes a confused little noise, “Why?”

Melchior shifts and props himself up on his elbow, lifting his head from Moritz. “Moritz, you know.”

Moritz’s confusion does not clear. “No, no I do not know.”

Melchior huffs. “Mo, I love you.”

Moritz could swear his brain short circuits - again. Moritz follows Melchior’s lead and raises himself up on his elbows. He has never seen Melchior so nervous. Not even earlier before he showed Moritz the stockings.

The smile that graces his face is positively incandescent. His face flushes with happiness. “I love you too.” However, Moritz spends far too much time with Melchior so he cannot help but add, “But I loved you before you wore those blue stockings for me.” 

Melchior’s smile matches Moritz’s. He leans down and his lips meet Moritz’s and the kiss they share is nothing like the bruising ones they shared earlier. This kiss is soft. And so is the next one and the next one and the next one. 

“I love you.” Melchior cannot help but say it again and again. 

It does not feel like an overindulgence however, when each time he says it, Moritz says it back. 

Melchior may not be one for church anymore but whatever God intended for them, this must have been a part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: in my uni's production of spring awakening, our herr sonnenstich broke the switch over our melchior's chest during the third performance


	6. no better version of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "this is super short but i make the rules so who cares?" - me to my friend, looking at the length of this chapter compared to the one before it

Melchior drags Moritz into his room by the hand. “Mo, you have to stop reading.”

Moritz laughs and drops Melchior’s hand, “I thought you liked it. You said you liked when we had more things to talk about.” 

Melchior nods and closes the door, “I do like it! Do you like it?” He had to make sure. 

“Yes, I like it, too,” Moritz says fondly. “But if you like it and I like it, then why do I have to stop?”

Melchior steps into Moritz’s space and puts his hands on Moritz’s hips, “Okay, addendum. You have to stop talking about reading in front of my mother.”

Moritz makes a confused noise, “That makes even less sense.”

Melchior drags his hands up Moritz’s sides to cup his face, “It makes perfect sense because it just -” He cuts off to kiss Moritz. “Makes.” He kisses Moritz again. “Me.” Again. “Want.” Again. “To.” Again. “Kiss.” Again. “You.” He kisses Moritz once more. 

Moritz is - and this is the only word Melchior has for it - giggling. “I knew you liked me better now than when I was stupid.”

Melchior pulls away from him and looks at Moritz with utter incredulity. He says very seriously, “Moritz. Listen to me. You have never in your life been stupid. You just can’t focus in school.”

Moritz attempts to protest but Melchior holds a finger over Moritz’s mouth. “Moritz. We both know one of my many character flaws is that I cannot stand idiots.”

Moritz speaks from behind Melchior’s index finger, “Yeah. It’s gotten you into trouble more than once.”

Melchior huffs, “Hush. I cannot stand idiots and you and I have been, at the very least, friends since we were children. If you were actually stupid do you really think I would have spent that much time with you?” Moritz opens his mouth again. “No, let me finish. You know I’m not that good of a person.”

Moritz laughs and grabs Melchior’s wrist, pulling it away from his lips, “No, no you’re not, are you?” He kisses Melchior. “It’s a good thing I love you just the way you are.” 

“I love you, too,” Melchior replies. “But you admit, that I’m right and you’re smart.”

Moritz rolls his eyes, “I will admit that I am not, in fact, stupid.”

Melchior kisses him again, softly. “You know, it is a very good thing you love me even with all my faults. I don’t know who else could possibly put up with me.”

Moritz laughs loudly and gives Melchior a quick kiss. “Well, Wendla Bergmann would certainly like to try.” 

Melchior descends into laughter. “She keeps trying to talk to me.” He draws out the last syllable of each sentence. “I want her to stop!”

Moritz laughs with him, “Oh no, you poor thing. How will you ever survive?” Melchior pouts and Moritz tries to kiss him again.

Tries, being the operative word, because they fall back into laughter before their lips can meet. 

They are still laughing when Fanny calls them down for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First draft: 
> 
> “She keeps trying to talk to me.” He draws out the last syllable of each sentence. “I want her to stop!”
> 
> "Waaaaat?? You don't wanna nut inside Wendla???????" 
> 
> (we love memes about shows we had nothing to do with, babyyyyyyyy)
> 
> (also sorry for the crackhead energy - it's finals - and that's the excuse i'm sticking to)


	7. there's an art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cursed but in latin

Melchior sits at his desk. He occasionally glances at the text in front of him but mainly, he just recites. He knows he knows the story before him. The Latin falls from his lips, rote and rehearsed. Melchior idly hopes he is not boring Moritz. The boy in question is reclining on Melchior’s bed. He had told Melchior not to bother him as he was reading but Melchior did not think he had heard a page turn in awhile. Melchior thumbs the page, turning it carelessly. It is barely a reference for him. His mind wanders to this morning. His mother had almost found out about the affections between himself and Moritz. It would have been his own fault, too. 

Moritz had been sleep rumpled and marvelous and had smiled so sweetly when he passed Melchior the bread during breakfast. Melchior couldn’t help himself. The “thank you, angel” had left him before he even knew what he was saying. His father had been too engrossed in the morning paper to notice. Fanny, however, had stilled. She had tilted her head as if unsure of what she had just heard. 

Melchior had tried to backtrack, had tried to say, “thank you, Moritz” and pass it off as what he had said the first time. The bright flush that had risen up Moritz’s neck and spread across his cheeks did not help sell his story. Neither for that matter, did the blush on Melchior’s own face. Fanny had shaken herself and apparently made up her mind to ignore it. That was one truth she could not stomach. 

Melchior’s recitation does not falter as his mind drifts to Wendla Bergmann. Did she perhaps have the same willful ignorance as his mother? He had dodged her more times than was probably socially acceptable. Had dodged her for Moritz. Had dodged her for Moritz and told her to her face. He would not put it past himself to have uttered the word “angel” in reference to Moritz in front of her. He truly could not help it. The church is without meaning, without purpose. What good would it do to pray to a God that had thus shown no interest in Melchior? What good would it do when he had Moritz? 

Melchior makes to turn the page again but finds it impossible. A hand has closed over the book. His voice fails as he looks up, into the eyes of his angel. Moritz pulls the book from Melchior’s grasp. He tosses it somewhere - Melchior does not know; he is occupied with more important sights. He could slap himself at the words that leave his lips, “I was reading that!”

Moritz straddles Melchior, “We both know you weren’t. You don’t need that at all.” He takes Melchior’s face in his hands and leans down to kiss him. There is no gradual press. No gentle parting of lips. This is filthy. Moritz’s tongue is everywhere in Melchior’s mouth. He cannot breathe and he does not want to. Moritz draws back only far enough to drag his lips across Melchior’s jaw. His breath is hot on Melchior’s skin. 

He nips at the juncture below Melchior’s ear. “Say it again,” he whispers. 

“I was reading that?” Melchior is bewildered. 

“No,” Moritz bites his earlobe. “The Homer. Recite your Homer for me.”

Melchior huffs a laugh. Is this Moritz’s way of making sure he knows his Latin? He begins his recitation again. If Moritz wants to sit on him while he does his homework, Melchior is certainly not going to stop him. “Mater, quae quidem de Olympo louem me compotem voti detur -” Melchior feels Moritz’s hips jerk. He feels Moritz’s hard length press into his stomach. He feels the stutter of Moritz’s breath on his neck. 

All joking leaves Melchior’s voice and the meanings of the words are lost to him, “sed quid mihi illud, o iucunde sodalis cum eo Patroclus praestantior…” Moritz starts grinding his hips into Melchior’s. Melchior grinds up in response, each word panted, “est quam magnificata est fallen- ipse quam omnes ceteri, et sicut dilexit anima mea paras?" 

Melchior trails off. He cannot speak. Achilles and Patroclus do not exist in this moment. There is nothing outside of the frantic movement of their hips. There is nothing outside of the labored breathing between them. There is nothing outside of the blinding pleasure. 

Melchior comes down from his high. He leans his head on Moritz’s chest. He feels Moritz press a kiss to his sweaty forehead. He chuckles, “So, Latin?”

Moritz shakes his head, his nose buried in Melchior’s hair. “You.” Melchior hums noncommittally. Moritz leans back to look Melchior in the eyes, “I’m not kidding. It’s not the Latin. It’s the you speaking Latin.” 

Melchior shakes his head, “Sure, sure.” He taps Moritz’s thigh. “Hop up. Let’s get cleaned up. I really don’t want to sit and wait until this dries.” He gestures to the wet spots on the fronts of their trousers. 

Moritz flushes and hurriedly gets off Melchior’s lap, “Yeah, I didn’t really think this through did I?”

Melchior stands and kisses Moritz quick and chaste, “Mo, angel, if this is what you not thinking gets us, then please, never think again.” He cannot help but kiss him again, “I swear, you’re perfect, angel.”

They shuck their clothing, giving everything a quick rinse in the basin in Melchior’s room. Moritz wipes away the sticky residue from the tops of his legs. He tosses the rag to Melchior, “You should be careful, calling me that. Someone is going to notice and decide to care.”

Melchior finishes cleaning himself off and tugs Moritz to the bed. “Mo. My angel. I refuse. I would rather be forcibly driven from my home and this town than stop addressing you as my soul requires.”

Moritz settles against Melchior’s chest, “You’re being overly dramatic. Orgasms make you far more poetic than they have any right to.”

Melchior inhales deeply, soaking in the scent of the boy in his arms. Underlying the musk and sweat of their recent activity is the sweetness that Melchior associates only with Moritz. “I am not dramatic. I simply love you as dearly as my own life.”

Moritz slaps Melchior’s side gently, “Should I be offended that you remember what you said in the midst of our…?”

Melchior snorts, “Coupling? You can’t be, because you obviously remember the words also.”

“Of course I do. I was getting off on them and I need to remember them to get off to in the future.”

“Mo! You can’t give me that visual! It’ll torment me as I sit in that stuffy classroom!” Melchior exclaims, rather indignantly.

“As if you don’t think of me already.” At Melchior’s raised eyebrow, “What? You did just say you loved me.”

Melchior says, softer, gentler, “And you believe me?”

Moritz reaches for and then brings Melchior’s hand to his lips, “Keep calling me angel and I might.” 

“I love you, angel.”

“I love you, too.” Moritz exhales. Later they will have to redress for dinner and pretend to be less than they are to each other but not now, in this moment. There is nothing outside this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the latin is supposed to be this bit of achilles talking: "Mother, Olympian Jove has indeed vouchsafed me the fulfilment of my prayer, but what boots it to me, seeing that my dear comrade Patroclus has fallen- he whom I valued more than all others, and loved as dearly as my own life?" 
> 
> but i used google translate so idk if it is what it's supposed to be


End file.
